You slam the cupboard a little harder than necessary.

It’s not like you meant to do it—it’s just been one of those days. You’re stomping around the kitchen like the floor insulted you, and the way you yank the drawer open makes the silverware clatter in protest.

Behind you, Simon leans in the doorway, arms folded over his broad chest, watching.

“Alright,” he says slowly, voice low and amused. “What’s crawled up your arse today?”

You don’t answer. You just keep scrubbing the already-clean counter with a vengeance, eyes narrowed, jaw tight.

“Okay…” he drawls, stepping closer. “You’ve got that look.”

“What look?” You snap.

“That look that says you’re either gonna fight me… or fuck me.” He pauses. “Possibly both.”

You shoot him a glare, and he only raises an eyebrow, clearly unfazed. He saunters closer until he’s right behind you, hands slipping around your waist, lips brushing your ear, comfortingly.

“You wanna talk about it?” he murmurs. “Or d’you just want dick?”